Leechwife
by Veruka
Summary: WIP. Madam Pomfrey's retirement brings about the hiring of a new medi-witch to the Hogwarts staff, and she likes to play God. Dr Kevorkian meets the Countess Bathory. Leeches are thought to cleanse filthy blood, after all...
1. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Leechwife**  
by Veruka

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and the characters and concepts contained therein are property J.K. Rowling. No profit. Transcends to all chapters.

Rating: R [rated for future chapters, which will include violence, gore, sexual content, and of course the musings of an unhinged mind unfit for those of delicate sensibilities]

Notes: This has been festering in my mind for quite some time now. I was going to put it off until I'd at least mostly finished my other stories, "Tourniquet" especially, but when inspiration strikes... Set during Harry's fifth year.

* * *

**Prologue - Something Wicked This Way Comes**

  
In the evenings, the lamenting wails always became louder, their symptoms more pronounced, as though the rising moon drew with it the strings to their insanity, banishing lucidity with its silvery glow and forcing the raw psychosis embedded into their fractured minds to surface.

_\Lu*na*cy\, n.; 1. Insanity or madness; properly, the kind of insanity which is broken by intervals of reason, -- formerly supposed to be influenced by the changes of the moon; any form of unsoundness of mind, except idiocy; mental derangement or alienation._

The textbook definition was firmly engrained into her brain, scratched deep into the grey matter by the tip of a quill that had been made to write it one-thousand-and-one times over the last nineteen years. It made its way back into her thoughts now, as she walked the mournful halls, footfalls echoing and intermingling with the desolate groans. The ones prone to screaming had Silencing Charms placed on their padded cells, where they thrashed themselves into exhaustion, straightjackets buckled tight like corsets, like pythons, asphyxiating their will to harm themselves.

The moans filled her ears like a string symphony, low, woeful cellos and softly shrieking violins the background music as she made her rounds, glancing through the small windows of glass enchanted to never break, almost a contemptuous ridiculing of the shattered minds they allowed her to glimpse.

Little Alice McGee in room nine-o-three, one of the silent ones, catatonic for eight years now after being burnt to a half-death while playing too closely to the sitting room fireplace in her family's fine home. Perhaps she was still playing there, climbing up on top of the mantel to peer through the looking-glass.

Youthful Jean-Claude Lamoureux, aged ninety-two, though he still believed himself to be a boy of seven. Far more vocal than little Alice, he was most often heard calling for his _maman_, who had been sleeping beneath the earth for three decades now, lured into an early grave by the heartache of her son's endless childhood.

There were others, of course, many others. Catatonics, schizophrenics, psychopaths...a melting pot of dementia steeping, bubbling up sorrowful howls that would continue to haunt the salted halls as doleful spirits, too unhinged even to find their way to the peace of death, cursed to wander the ghost roads for eternity. She had enjoyed that once, taken pleasure in their endless suffering, but the time had come to put business before pleasure, and for days now the incessant, mad dronings of her patients had caused her annoyance more than anything else. How was she meant to gage a person's reaction to a specific something when they reacted randomly to every sort of stimuli placed in front of them? It simply wouldn't do.

How pleased she had been, then, pleased and curious to find an envelope waiting for her on her desk when she returned to her office. On one side, stamped into red wax, was a seal she had not laid eyes on in nearly twenty years. On the other, written in precise letters of green ink:

_Miss C. Absinthe  
The Office at the End of the Psychiatric Ward  
L'hôspital de Charenton pour Maladies Magique  
Paris  
France_

Taking hold of a letter opener, she slid the dull blade beneath the seal and eased it off the rough vanilla parchment of the envelope, extracted the letter contained within, and began to read, a wicked smile slowly curling on her lips.

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
~  
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore  
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

Dear Miss Absinthe,

I realise it has been many years since last we spoke, though I do tend to check up on my former students' successes occasionally and I must say, your career has been one of the most interesting to follow. I was quite happy to find that your ambitions never waned, never lost their focus, and I believe I can say with complete confidence than you are now one of the most respected medi-witches in your chosen field of healing, both in medical and psychological circles.

I also realise that, due to your aforementioned success, what I must request of you may come as a bit of an insult, though that is the last thing I intend as I write it.

Our resident medi-witch here at Hogwarts, Poppy Pomfrey, has announced her wish to retire. With the inevitable conflict between Light and Dark magic in the wizarding world looming ever closer, she wishes to spend as much time with her son, the Auror Patrick Pomfrey, as possible before he is called away to fight against Lord Voldemort's forces. I did not argue with her decision.

Thus, we have an opening in our ranks for a new medi-witch, and it is because of your credentials in psychology just as much as in medical care that I am offering the position to you. With the stressful times ahead, our students and faculty are going to be bruised and battered, and not only in the physical sense. To have someone with your expertise caring for their bodies and their minds would be of great relief to myself, and to the rest of the Hogwarts faculty.

You are under no obligation to accept, of course, but please give the matter some serious thought, and if possible, let me know your response, be it positive or negative, before the first of September. If you have any questions, send me an owl or contact me by fire.

Respectfully yours,

Albus Dumbledore,  
Headmaster

She leaned back against the desk thoughtfully, the letter swinging limply between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand.

Children. Adolescents could be loosely classified as sane; she could extract their troubles from them in detail, gain far more detailed information from their personal reactions to what made them feel so wretched, far more precision in her research. _He_ would be pleased with that.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ancient Albus was unaware that she had been following his pursuits just as closely as he had been following hers. The school did end up in the papers often enough, even more frequently in the last four years, as the study of one young Harry Potter had become quite the underground obsession. The boy who defeated the Dark Lord. The Boy Who Lived -- thrice. She knew a number of wizarding psychologists who would have loved to wrench their fingers inside his skull and probe his mind if given the chance.

Of course, she _had_ been given the chance, written in green ink and held carelessly in her hand. The opportunity to kill three birds with one stone. _He_ would be very pleased, indeed.

She sat down behind the desk and retrieved a piece of parchment from the centre drawer. After dipping a quill in a bottle of red ink, she chose her words and began to write.

_Dear Mr Dumbledore,_

After giving the matter careful consideration, I have chosen to accept the position of Hogwarts' medi-witch, as per your proposition. Please allow me one month to set my affairs here at Charenton in order, after which I shall arrive as soon as possible to begin fulfilling my newfound obligations to the school.

Sincerely yours,

Cyana Absinthe, M.D. 


	2. Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

**Chapter 1 - Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder**

  
Harry Potter awoke to the blinding light of the sun in his eyes, and the oppressive heat of the August morning causing his skin to stick to the sheets. This particular summer had been hotter than normal, and he always woke with a stuffy head that held his dreams in a fog close to his consciousness. This would not have been a bad thing, had his dreams not been bad themselves.

For the last month and a half following Lord Voldemort's return to power, Harry's nights had been riddled with unpleasantness. Whatever psychic connection he shared with the Dark wizard who had stolen the lives of his parents and many others had strengthened. The dreams he knew now to be semi-prophetic had grown more vivid and frequent, but they were still quite vague, and often times he had no way of knowing what the Dark Lord was talking about -- Riddle often spoke in riddles, as though he was wary that he was indeed being watched -- or his location.

Dreams that held no prophetic meaning were often of Cedric. Harry didn't even want to think about those.

The overall effect of both was a feeling of utter helplessness, relief from which only came when the Dursleys left to do this or that, and left him in the care of his elderly neighbour, Mrs. Figg, whom he'd found to be a lot more pleasant than she had been in the past -- not to mention a hell of a lot more interesting -- when she was free to do magic in front of him. The pictures of her cats were still the main source of entertainment, of course, but there were new pictures now -- ones that moved and were thus a trifle more amusing.

Mrs. Figg also often had news -- news of Harry's godfather, Sirius Black, and his old professor and Sirius' best friend, Remus Lupin, not to mention various other happenings in the wizarding world which Harry so desperately missed being immersed in, even with the knowledge that war was imminent. Sirius and Lupin had yet to visit him, citing his own personal safety were either to be spotted near him, even if the former was in his Animagus form, but Harry took comfort in the fact that he would be seeing both in two short weeks, back at Hogwarts, where Lupin was once again going to be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts with his dog, Snuffles, for company.

It still seemed a long time away to Harry, who didn't feel at home unless he was at Hogwarts, and who didn't feel completely safe without the nearby protection of the headmaster, Professor Dumbledore.

His thoughts weighed heavy as the heat as he trudged into the bathroom to brush his teeth and splash his face with icy water. He leaned wearily over the sink, feeling as though he hadn't slept at all, and glanced up at his reflection in the mirror. Droplets of water sped over his skin to drip onto his chest like tears. His green eyes were dull and bloodshot from a restless sleep, set back deeper into the hollows of their sockets than normal. His appetite had been decidedly lacking all summer long -- which was in some ways lucky, as the Dursleys had a habit of forgetting to feed him. Because of this, he'd always been rather skinny for his age, but this was the first time he had found himself actually _losing_ weight. The fact that the majority of his Muggle clothes once belonged to his cousin Dudley, who was by now well over five feet no matter which way one measured him, was the only thing that kept others from noticing how thin he had grown. He wondered absently how he would fare at Quidditch this year -- the Bludgers were going to have a field day with him if he didn't bulk up a bit soon.

Not bothering to dry his face, he made his way back to his room. His snowy owl, Hedwig, hooted a sleepy good-morning at him from her cage.

"Hey, Hedwig," he acknowledged her drearily. "Heat's getting to you too, eh?"

The owl ruffled her feathers a bit, but otherwise did not respond. Owls were too dignified to act bothered by something as trivial as temperature.

Harry grabbed a pair of mostly-clean jeans from the hamper and pulled them on. Dudley's raggedy leather belt he wore to hold them on nearly wrapped thrice around his waist. _I'll be mummified by the time he turns eighteen,_ he mused to himself, and was just tugging on a faded red t-shirt when the doorbell rang from downstairs.

"Harry!" Uncle Vernon's voice bellowed up from the sitting room. "Get off your lazy bum and answer the door!"

"Likewise," Harry muttered under his breath, then shouted back, "Yes Uncle Vernon!"

"If they're selling something, send them away," the fat man grunted as his nephew trotted down the stairs and headed for the front door.

"Yes Uncle Vernon," Harry repeated automatically, rolling his eyes when Vernon's piggish form turned away from him.

Brushing his perpetually untidy black hair out of his eyes, he opened the door, and his mouth fell open once he caught sight of who was waiting beyond the threshold.

"Hi!" the girl said, quickly and cheerily before Harry could make a sound. "I'm Hermione Figg, Mrs. Figg's granddaughter. I'm staying with her for a couple of weeks before school begins. She was afraid I might grow bored, and so she sent me out to meet a few of her neighbours. She mentioned this house in particular. You're Harry Potter, right?"

Harry's head spun with the onslaught of hastily-spoken information. Thus far, he'd managed to digest 'Hermione'. And Hermione it was, looking very tanned from summer and wearing a Muggle outfit of a knee-length skirt and an airy white blouse. She was looking at him pointedly, as if she was trying to will knowledge into his brain with her eyes -- yep. Same Hermione.

Harry's mouth opened to let out words, finally managing an "Uh."

She gave him a pained look, and his mind at last kicked into gear.

"Oh! Yeah! Harry Potter -- that's me. Harry."

"Harry!" Uncle Vernon barked from the sitting room, and Harry shrugged at Hermione.

"See?"

"Who is it, boy?" An audible groan rose from the floorboards as Uncle Vernon plodded his way toward the door. Hermione flashed him the widest smile Harry had ever seen her give and held out her hand.

"Hermione Figg, Mrs. Figg's granddaughter. I'm visiting from Somerset. You must be Mr. Dursley. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Uncle Vernon regarded the girl sceptically for a moment, his watery eyes squinting before he broke out into one of his insincere, impress-the-neighbours grins that was ever so slightly lascivious. He took Hermione's offered hand with a snorting chuckle and held it up to his fat mouth to kiss it. She pulled away at the last second, covering up a grimace with a giggle (_Hermione can giggle? _Harry thought to himself._ Hermione can -- Hermione's _here._ Why -- how -- _why?). Uncle Vernon didn't seem the least bit swayed.

"Yes, very nice to meet you, very nice indeed," he said, then cast a suspicious glare Harry's way. "I apologise for my...nephew---" he spat out the word, scowling, "---his manners are atrocious. Harry, why didn't you invite young Miss Figg inside?"

"I---" Harry started, but didn't get a chance to finish before Uncle Vernon's hand was on Hermione's shoulder, ushering her into the house.

"So sorry about that, my dear," Uncle Vernon blustered on.

"Oh, really, I don't mind in the least---"

"PETUNIA! DUDLEY! Mrs. Figg's granddaughter's come 'round to visit, all the way from _Somerset!_"

Harry's horse-faced aunt and lumpy cousin appeared in an instant. Aunt Petunia squealed in faux-delight at such a _normal_-looking person of Harry's age making an appearance in her home. Harry was suddenly gripped by a feeling of dread -- if the Dursleys only knew that Hermione was a witch, they'd---

---come to think of it, they'd probably cower in fear behind the sofa. Harry bit forcefully down on his tongue.

"Hermione Figg," Hermione introduced herself for the third time, now looking somewhat uneasy at all the attention.

As his mother fawned, Dudley did his best to draw himself up impressively, sucking in his great gut until his face turned red before exhaling and sucking it in again. Harry continued on in a half-daze, mindlessly following the group into the kitchen, where his aunt had set out a plate of biscuits and went to retrieve a pitcher of milk from the refrigerator. Dudley, seizing the opportunity of having both his parents distracted by company enough to forget about his diet, grabbed four biscuits and started devouring them almost all at the same time. Hermione turned a pale shade of green at the sight, and shot Harry a surreptitious look of appal. Harry, unsure of whether or not he was meant to smile, stared down at the tabletop.

"So, Hermione," Aunt Petunia began, a plastic grin on her long face, "where do you attend school?"

Harry looked up quickly, but Hermione answered without so much as a blink.

"Miss Cackle's Academy for Girls. I'll be starting my fifth year there this autumn."

"Oh, how nice. Our Dudley's due to start his fifth year at Smeltings. He's a very bright boy -- handsome and athletic, too. One might say he's everything rolled up into one, the perfect boy!"

Dudley puffed himself up proudly once more. Had Harry been allowed a biscuit, he would have choked on it. _Everything rolled up into one?! Well...that would explain his size..._

"Cackle's, eh?" Uncle Vernon interjected, his eyes squinting into tiny slits. "I don't believe I've ever heard of it."

"It's very exclusive," Hermione quickly replied. "And very expensive."

Uncle Vernon's face softened a little at the mention of money, but he didn't look wholly convinced. "Is it, now? What do your parents do to be able to afford such an education for their lovely daughter?"

"They're dentists -- _and_ I'm on a partial scholarship," Hermione added.

"I think _I've_ heard of it, Vernon, dear," Aunt Petunia, not wanting to be the ignorant bystander, put in. This seemed to be enough to satisfy her husband, who sat back in his chair and poured himself a glass of milk.

There was a somewhat awkward moment of silence. Harry resisted the urge to scrape his fingernails along the tabletop in an imitation of his relatives' groping for a conversation topic.

"Well," Hermione spoke up swiftly, "it's such a beautiful day, it'd be a shame to waste it inside. I was wondering if I might go for a walk with your nephew, Mrs. Dursley?"

Aunt Petunia looked taken aback. Her eyes darted comically between Harry and the girl, looking almost panicked before they came to rest on her husband, who let out a blustering cough beneath his moustache.

"Um...why don't you walk with Dudley instead? He'd be much better company."

Dudley opened his mouth to protest, but all that came out were damp biscuit crumbs. Harry couldn't blame him -- with the heat as it was, he wouldn't have been surprised if his cousin fried on the sidewalk like a slab of bacon if made to go outside.

"Actually," Hermione leaned forward in her seat and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I thought it would be nice if I were to get Harry out of the house for awhile. My grandmother's told me all about him and, well, I feel sort of obligated to give you and your family some peace without him here, now that I know the way he is. If he's bad enough to be sent to St. Brutus's, he must be an absolute _nightmare_ to live with."

Harry was now resisting the urge to propose.

If the words "Somerset," "expensive" and "exclusive" hadn't already sold the Dursleys on Hermione's worth as a human being, calling Harry a nightmare certainly did. For the first time since she'd shown up on his doorstep, Uncle Vernon smiled sincerely.

Less than a minute later, the two magic-endowed fifteen-year-olds were out the door and heading toward Mrs. Figg's house, one of them with a hissed warning that any funny business and he'd be locked in the cupboard until he turned thirty. Harry managed to contain himself until he was sure that they were out of the visibility range of Aunt Petunia's keen and nosy eyes before letting out a happy whoop and enveloping his best friend in a tight hug.

"What are you doing here? You're a genius! Is Ron here, too? How did you plan this? God, I've missed you!"

Hermione laughed and hugged him back. "Well, I felt so bad for you having to stay here all summer long, I couldn't even enjoy my own holidays. I remembered you mentioning Mrs. Figg being a witch, being close to Dumbledore and all, and so I owled her to ask if it wouldn't be too much trouble if I were to stay with her for a short while so that I could visit you. She agreed, and my parents were all right with it, so...here I am. Ron's not here, though, sorry, but we're meeting him at Diagon Alley in a week to get our school things. Mrs. Figg's going to let us use her Floo, and she said she'd drive us to King's Cross as well, on the first."

"Wow," said Harry, still grinning and shaking his head in disbelief. "That's really generous of her."

"Well, she's really fond of you. Almost as fond as she is of her cats."

Harry sniggered. "So you've been exposed to the pictures."

"For an hour this morning. Though Crookshanks seems rather taken by that tabby of hers, Gingersnap."

"You brought Crookshanks?"

"I couldn't very well leave him in the company of Muggles now, could I? Even if they are my parents and I love them dearly, I think they're a bit creeped out by a cat as intelligent as Crookshanks is." She smiled, and Harry laughed, grabbing her by her wrists and spinning her around once.

"Thank you, Hermione, for doing all of this. I haven't felt this good in months. Thank you."

Hermione blushed a bright pink and shrugged, abashed. "It's nothing. What are friends for, right?"

Harry nodded. "Right."

"Right. Now let's get inside. My appetite left me after watching your cousin eat, but _you_ definitely need to get some meat on your bones, unless you're trying to _be_ a broomstick rather than trying to ride one during Quidditch this year."

_Yep,_ Harry thought to himself, _same Hermione. Doesn't miss a thing._

+*+*+*+*+

The day danced on the razor's edge between the fetid summer and salubrious autumn, the sultry August heat creeping out with the dusk like a slug, leaving a sticky trail for the first September night of the year to dry with a brittle, cool breeze. The crisp air upon which he glided carried him like a will o' the wisp, slipping over and through the tips of his oil-black feathers, pulling him like coaxing fingers further toward the sky.

Below him, he could see the train: chugging along and rasping scentless steam; and ahead of him, the castle: towering and kept safe from any one time by its menacing, majestic skeletal structure.

Over the masked town of Hogsmeade, over the looking glass of the lake he flew; altering his course, dipping down toward the earth, chased by clouds; through a small, round window crucified by two threads of iron on the castle's first floor kept open specifically for his use.

The raven fluttered back and reached out a clawed foot to grope at the stone floor. A boot took its place, landing softly, nigh-silently. Black feathers rippled away to reveal black robes and pallid flesh, oil-black hair and a strong Roman nose in place of a beak. Only the eyes remained the same, dark glittering orbs that always had and would never fail to witness more than their owner ever spoke of.

"You always were one for dramatic entrances," an amused female voice chuckled quietly behind him. He turned, something between a scowl and a smirk twisting his thin mouth as he regarded his colleague, who was seated at her desk, poring disapprovingly over a stack of parchments he chose not to guess the nature of.

"Would you rather I transform before I reach your office and plunge to my death? I'm certain that that entrance would be spectacularly received as well," he sneered.

"Don't be ridiculous, Severus. An environment that jovial would do nothing but make the students disorderly with mirth."

He gave a derisive snort, and started to depart. He had just reached the threshold of her office door when she spoke again:

"Speaking of death -- Madam Absinthe arrived only an hour ago while you were away."

Snape's face became suddenly bereft of anything but a hard glare. "Oh?" he said, keeping his back to the deputy headmistress, something akin to mild disgust in his tone.

"Yes, not that I much expect you to care."

He ground his teeth together, ignoring her flippancy as his mind filled with more disconcerting thoughts.

McGonagall glanced up from the stack of parchments she had been dealing to, and frowned when she found that he had yet to displace himself from the doorway. "Severus? Is there something wrong?"

He flinched, a very slight jerk of his neck, and shook his head. "No, there is nothing."

The Transfigurations mistress gave him a shrewd look, but shrugged his change in demeanour off as yet another oddity of his unpredictable moods, which she had grown accustomed to after working alongside him for nearly fourteen years, and with him directly for the last three, spending many a sleepless night teaching him the art of Animagi, the physical shift between the human spirit and the animal one that each person possessed in the recesses of their souls. It had been imperative that he learn the skill as quickly as possible -- which, being of a most formidable mind, he had. Essential as well was that his ability remained unregistered with the Ministry of Magic, lest it all be done in vain. He was no longer hunted for his usefulness to Lord Voldemort and the Death Eaters -- though hunted he still was -- but an old debt had yet to be paid in full, and there were many methods of spying on illicit symposiums if one had a map of their varying locations and times seared into one's left forearm.

"Well then, I propose we adjourn to the Entrance Hall," McGonagall declared, rising. "The students will be arriving soon, and heavens forefend if the Weasley twins are allowed to stalk the herd unsupervised. Thank Merlin it's their last year here."

He relented a noncommittal nod and stalked out the door, not bothering to wait as she lingered behind to lock it, and quite rudely abandoning her once they reached the top of the staircase that led from the first floor to the ground floor with a brief apology and the explanation of forgotten business that needed tending to before the students' invasion of the castle. It was a transparent excuse, and she of course saw right through it from behind her thin, square spectacles, but he left with such haste that she was not bequeathed the chance to question him about it. The doors to the hospital wing opened with a low, melancholic groan as he stepped inside. The sterile room faced East, and was already draped in darkness but for a few gleaming rays of dimming sunlight that still reflected off the castle's grounds, and the quiet flicker of candlelight that glinted through the half-open door that had once led to Pomfrey's office and now led to _hers_.

When the headmaster had informed him of the newest addition to the Hogwarts faculty, he had been, at the very least, sceptical. "Blatantly distrustful" was a more adequate term. In a time clouded with suspicion, Severus Snape was wary of all new faces that passed before his eyes, even more wary of old ones, and she was all but a wraith of the past to him.

"Cyana Absinthe, Albus?" he'd spat, making no attempt to hide his antipathy at the old wizard's decision. "Are you quite certain she is the wisest choice for the position?"

"Absolutely." Dumbledore had answered without pause, and continued between little sucks of a sherbet lemon, "She's more than qualified for the job."

"That's not what I meant."

"I am well aware of what you meant, Severus. I, too, remember her years as a student here, but rest assured she is no longer a child thirsting to prove herself by any means. She's learned to focus those ambitions, and has done exceptionally well in a field she enjoys. You above all people should relate to that," he'd said, giving the younger man a pointed look. Snape's loathsome glare had not wavered. "I have checked her credentials most thoroughly," Dumbledore had gone on, "and they betray no Dark allegiance, nor the scarcest allusion to one, and in these dark days it is imperative that those of us who are willing work together. I have every confidence in her abilities, and I trust that she will not disappoint in fulfilling the duties she has chosen to undertake. If there was ever anything she could never tolerate from herself, it was failure."

There was a finality in the headmaster's tone that silently forbade further argument of the matter, though the Potions master was in no way ready to let it go. Weeks had passed since then, and as the gaunt man made his way across the infirmary and into the adjoining office, he found himself face to face with a woman he had not seen since the day of their graduation.

The medi-witch glanced up from her examination of one of many open files occupying her desk, a quill in one hand and a half-melted sugar cube in the other, an albino ball python approximately four feet in length wrapped around her shoulders like a peculiar shawl. A calculating smile curved at her mouth when she saw that it was he who had disturbed her quiet -- obviously, she had been expecting him.

The years had been kind to her, he noticed, not that he had ever paid much attention to her appearance whatsoever. He anticipated that now, like before, they were to be mere acquaintances, two people passing each other in corridors with curt affirmations of recognition that, because they shared the Sorting Hat's decision of which house they belonged in, a modicum of respect was in order. If, of course, he was accepting of her answers to his questions. He was already certain that he wouldn't be.

"Snape," she acknowledged him, bringing the head of the serpent up to give it a soft kiss on the tip of its snout. The animal's forked tongue darted out, tasting the heat of its mistress's skin.

"Countess," Snape nodded once, and Absinthe's smile widened, more of a predatory baring of her teeth than any genuine display of delight.

"You remembered."

"How could I forget the girl who so often boasted of being descendent of the mad witch Bathory herself?"

"On my mother's side," she added, setting the quill and sugar cube aside and leaning back in her chair to give him her full attention. "She is the reason I went into the study of medicine and psychology, you know. Diseases of blood, diseases of mind; they're actually a great deal closer than most believe, and she luxuriated in both. I always did find my ancestor to be a fairly fascinating subject."

"You Transfigured the school's entire water supply to appear as blood when you were fifteen. I daresay you succeeded in making your point."

She chuckled low in her throat, a sensuous rasp of a sound. The python's head slithered closer to her neck to nestle itself close to the source of the strange vibrations. "I was impetuous in my youth."

Snape arched an eyebrow in disbelief. "Only in youth?"

"Mm...perhaps not, but my priorities differ significantly now than to what they were then. Surely yours do as well; it shows in your face, like an open book. The foul words are the same, but the penmanship has changed." She looked wistful for a moment, then shook her head, ridding her mind of whatever reverie had so briefly ensnared her. "Forgive me. I've spent too long in the company of lunatics. It's strange...sometimes I think I've glimpsed the method in their madness, until I begin to wonder if that makes me just as mad as they."

His face remained impassive, save for a slight narrowing of his eyes. "...we all have our moments of madness, Countess," he murmured slowly. "You needn't worry, unless you were to do something so...impetuous...as to immerse yourself in a bath of Cruor Infinitaserum¹ in order to maintain eternal vitality."

Absinthe gave him a contemplative look that was only half in jest and rose, picking up one of the pewter candelabras from her desk and brushing past him into the hospital wing. He followed, and watched as she performed a habit she had possessed since she was eleven years old, and probably earlier -- a candle in the window at the moon's first light, to guide the spirits that haunted the purgatorial ghost roads. It was the only act of empathy he had ever witnessed her execute.

Something glimmering in the corner furthest from where they stood caught his eye, and when he turned to discover its source, he was surprised he had not noticed it before: a solitary tank filled to the brim with murky water and an absolute swarm of squirming, black, worm-like creatures -- leeches.

"Aren't leeches a bit primitive in their medicinal capacity?" he queried, eyeing the tank with only mild interest, as he was used to handling and harvesting far less sanitary little beasts.

"No," she said, sauntering over to one of the cupboards that lined the walls and opening it to reveal an impressive collection of antique medical equipment, some of them instruments he recognised, others he had never before laid eyes on. "_These_ are primitive. Leeches are timeless."

Snape eyed the multitude of complex and, in some cases, lethal-looking contraptions charily, running a finger lightly along the sharp edge of a polished silver scalpel. "Cyana..." he began, his voice a bored, silky drawl, "...why are you here? You know as well as I do that there are far more rewarding occupations for someone of your skill and renown than a trifle position as a school nurse."

Absinthe simply shrugged. "I felt it was time for a change of scenery. Mental institutions tend to lose their novelty after a decade or so, and I felt this position would perhaps relax me. I may even find the work personally satisfying."

A dubious glare marred his visage. "You are either lying, or you are fooling yourself. We are Slytherins -- we are never relaxed, nor are we _ever_ satisfied. It is not in our nature to be either."

"As I said," she snapped, bristling, "my priorities have changed. If you cannot accept that---"

"There is an acute difference between priorities and personality, Absinthe," he hissed, ink-black gaze boring intensely into her defiant eyes.

She forced herself to take a seething breath, a dangerous scowl contorting her features. "Then perhaps you should take your own advice and realise the imprudence of taunting a snake. We lash out without warning."

He took a step toward her, so that his face was very close to hers, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin, and spoke in scarcely above a whisper. "Is that a threat, dear Countess?"

"Not in the least," she murmured, though her tone said otherwise. "Only a suggestion. I am a psychologist first, Snape; my profession is not one of interference."

"No," he conceded, "only one of manipulation. You study people, figure out the inner workings of their minds, and you play on the vulnerabilities you find."

Absinthe gaped at him in incredulity. "And you've _never_ done anything of that sort," she snapped, her voice dripping with sarcasm thick as molasses. "What is this? You believe I manipulated the headmaster? _He_ contacted _me,_ I'll have you know -- not the other way around. He trusts me."

"He, unlike myself, _wants_ to trust people. He is an intelligent man, but intelligence does not necessarily protect one from succumbing to foolishness. It is no carefully guarded secret that his weakness is his compassion. Come now, Cyana, you didn't honestly expect to step down into a position you are ridiculously overqualified for and have it go about unnoticed, did you?" he sneered condescendingly. "There is more to your presence here than simple act of charity, of that I am certain, and I _will_ discover its purpose."

"Is that a threat, dear Severus?" she hissed, smirking. Snape shook his head.

"No. Only a suggestion."

With a final piercing glower, he turned and swept out of the room, his robes swirling like a writhing shadow behind him.

"So you're not going to escort me to dinner, then?" she called after him. He didn't so much as pause in his exit. As the doors shut loudly behind him, the medi-witch's smirk faded rapidly. The serpent, sensing its mistress's temper, raised its head to brush against her cheek. She nuzzled the animal affectionately, but kept her eyes on the doors as though the Potions master was still standing in front of them. "Still the leery bat he has always been, isn't he, Night Snow?" she murmured. The snake's tongue fluttered out in silent agreement. "As ugly as ever, too...such a pity to have to destroy that." Absinthe paused for a thoughtful, almost mournful sigh. "But what must be done, will. By my hand, I swear it will be done."

She raised her gaze to the ceiling-cloaked heavens, though they were likely the last place her Lord would ever end up, and nor could he hear her harsh promise, but she knew he understood. If Cyana Absinthe had learned but one thing in her nineteen years of studying bedlam-besieged brains, both outside and in, it was that the human mind possessed abilities beyond all comprehension. Thoughts shaped worlds, most of them secret, few of them shared in speech, and she had ascertained enough knowledge of Divination in her scholarly life to realise the potential of a single rumination weaving itself without recognition of time or space to reach its destination. He knew, and somewhere he was smiling.

The serpent Night Snow coiled more tightly around her in response to the quickening of her mistress' heart at the thought as the medi-witch returned to her office and began to replace the files back in their proper places inside the various large wooden filing cabinets that lined one wall, mentally ticking the medical records off as she did so.

_Fawcett, pure-blood; Finch-Fletchley, Mudblood; Finnigan, half-blood; Goldstein, half-blood; Granger, Mudblood -- for fuck's sake, don't Muggles ever cross their legs? Though I can't really complain...the little plums certainly are ripe for the picking..._

She smiled to herself as she nestled the last file into the cabinet, uncoiled Night Snow from her shoulders and placed the python gently into its large wicker basket in the corner. The animated voices of youth floated boisterously up from the Entrance Hall. It was time for her to take her place at the High Table and meet her patients for the first time.

+*+*+*+*+

"Davies, Jamie."

A small girl with long, wavy brown hair tied back into a ponytail bounded eagerly forward and plopped down onto the stool. Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat gingerly on top of the girl's head, where it promptly slid down over her eyes and began to probe through her young mind. After a few moments, the hat's brim opened to shout "RAVENCLAW!", and Roger Davies' little sister tugged it off and went racing toward the cheering table, above which hung tapestries of rich blue and bronze. The eagle embroidered on one opened its beak to screech an approval as the girl sat down amongst her peers.

_Must be the year of the siblings,_ Harry thought to himself as he politely applauded Davies' placement. He already knew of three first-years who were bound to follow in their elder brother's or sister's footsteps, though Timothy Spinnet and Robyn Thomas were still waiting nervously to be Sorted.

"Twenty-two letters of the alphabet still to go," groused Ron Weasley as he melodramatically clutched his stomach. Though the Weasleys were quite poor, Harry knew for a fact that Mrs. Weasley never left a member of her brood with an empty stomach, and Harry wondered how Ron always managed to be hungry regardless. The redheaded boy blamed it on growth spurts, which was probably true -- Ron had always been tall, but this year he nearly breeched six feet, and had a good six inches on Harry, nine on Hermione.

"Emerson, Anastasia."

A brunette girl with a superior look about her strode confidently up to be Sorted. The hat was barely on her head for a second when it yelled out "SLYTHERIN!" She smiled and made her way over to join the other snakes. Harry's gaze wandered up to the High Table, where the Potions master's expression was as hard and emotionless as ever. Not for the first time, Harry wondered what the head of Slytherin House had been up to during the summer months.

_"If you are ready...if you are prepared..."_

What had Dumbledore meant by those words? Would he really allow -- more than allow; ask -- Snape to return to Lord Voldemort, to the Death Eaters and gods only know the things they did to Muggles -- to _people?_ What could Snape possibly owe Dumbledore that he would be willing to risk his life and sanity with only a few soft words?

Unless Snape went easily for a reason. Unless he was a coward through and through, and only joined Dumbledore's side because it was clear to him that Voldemort would soon lose power. Unless he enjoyed doing whatever it was that he did while he was with the Death Eaters, and couldn't wait to get back to it with the insurance that anything he did, he did for the side of Light, and was thus pardoned from his crimes. Harry had never trusted the Potions master, and this year, he would be especially wary of the sour, scowling man who seemed to hate him regardless of either Dark or Light.

"Harrison, Alexander."

Harry's eyes travelled the length of the High Table, over the stern faces of the faculty that were usually, for the most part, cordial and looking forward to the new term. Lupin was the only one to notice and offer Harry an optimistic smile. Even Dumbledore's eyes were a little dimmer, a little less lively than before, and Harry couldn't help but feel responsible for the gloomy, ominous mood that collected in the Great Hall like a brewing storm cloud.

"Hey," hissed Ron, jarring Harry from his thoughts with an elbow to the ribs, "who's that?"

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the hat cried.

Amidst the applause of the badgers, Harry followed Ron's gaze to the left end of the High Table, where someone new was seated between Professors Sinistra and Croft, the Ancient Runes teacher. A woman who looked to be somewhere in her thirties was watching the Sorting with a cold, calculating stare.

"Haversham, Ruby."

"I don't know," Harry frowned, "but I don't like the look of her."

"No? I do. I like the look of her quite a lot, actually."

Hermione rolled her eyes automatically, but didn't reprimand the redhead's silly superficiality, figuring that he was fifteen, male, and Ron, and would thus like the look of anything of the opposite sex so long as it had hit or was past puberty. That, and she was too busy scanning the rest of the faculty, looking for some clue to the mysterious woman's identity. "Madam Pomfrey's gone," she noted. "Perhaps she's the new medi-witch."

"Really?" said Ron. "I'll have to investigate her bedside manner..."

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Oh, honestly," Hermione scoffed, but didn't take her eyes off the object of their study as she absently applauded the latest first-year's admission into their house. "She is...striking. Not gorgeous, but to each his own, I suppose."

"When did you get so shallow?" Ron chided her, but quickly lost his lopsided grin when he was ignored.

Harry was ignoring them both. If _that_ was the new medi-witch, he prayed he wouldn't get sick or injured, or anything else that would require him to go to the hospital wing for the next nine months or so.

She was everything Madam Pomfrey was not. Where Pomfrey had preferred immaculate white robes and could more often than not be found with a warm smile on her face when she wasn't busy shooing away the visitors of her patients, this woman was clothed head-to-toe in black, and not so much as a trace of a smirk was present on her mouth. Her skin was pale, but flushed and full of life, like a vampire who had recently fed, and the sticks that held her black hair back in a loose twist seemed more like stakes to him. Her face was strangely attractive, in the way that some people consider sharks beautiful. Her cheekbones, he decided, could have easily cut the hand she had one of them rested on. Dumbledore had hired a werewolf -- would he hire a vampire as well?

Harry's thoughts halted abruptly as she caught his gaze and held it frostily. The clear green colour of her eyes was almost unnaturally bright, their vividness amplified by the contrast of her dark, sharply arching eyebrows. He didn't like what he saw there, the wicked intention that shone through despite the impassiveness of her face. It made his blood turn to ice within his veins, and he shuddered in revulsion.

"Thomas, Robyn."

Harry's head jerked at the name -- they were to the T's already? How long had his eyes been locked with the eerie woman's? Had time frozen for him as his blood had?

Dean Thomas's little sister made her way up to the stool, her small fingers balled into tight, nervous fists that made the skin of her knuckles turn from a warm brown colour to a ruddy cream. McGonagall gingerly placed the Sorting Hat on her head, and not a minute later, she became the last new member of Gryffindor House. Dean whistled loudly over the din of the great dining hall as the young girl settled onto the bench between Timothy Spinnet and Elisabeth Summers. McGonagall returned to her seat, and Dumbledore stood to give his start-of-term speech.

Words of bleak times and the importance of standing together against a very real threat floated past Harry's ears; the preservation of life, and not adapting to sorrow; the preciousness of hope, and the knowledge that come what may, Hogwarts would perservere.

Across the hall, roughly half the Slytherin table looked bored out of their wits. Draco Malfoy, whom Harry had expected to see cracking jokes throughout the headmaster's speech, was unnaturally quiet, but still in no way listening to the old wizard's prattling. His pale, pointed face had a smugness to it, though the smirk he wore was small. Next to him, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle sat like great stone statues, but from the way they were staring at their empty plates, Harry figured they were more likely to be thinking about the food to come rather than the war.

Malfoy noticed Harry's stare, sneered, then winked maliciously. Harry could almost hear the blond boy's internal sing-song chant of "The Dark Lord's go-ing to ki-ill you, the Dark Lord's go-ing to ki-ill you..." He gave him the finger and turned back toward the High Table just as Dumbledore's speech ended, and he announced that he had two introductions to make.

Lupin was greeted warmly by most, with cheers from some and uneasy looks from others, the latter of which must have pained him, though his smile did not waver.

The new medi-witch was greeted a bit more apprehensively, and she either didn't notice or didn't care. She stood, a small, polite smile curling at the corners of her lips, and nodded once.

_Absinthe,_ Harry thought to himself. _Strange. Her name matches the colour of her eyes._

\Ab*sinthe\, n.; 1. A strong green liqueur flavoured with wormwood and anise, banned in most countries for its toxicity.

Bitter, intoxicating, and potentially lethal. Harry wondered if her name matched her temperament as well.

He would have all year to find out.

+*+*+*+*+

The candle in the window had melted nearly halfway down when Cyana was at last able to leave the feast and return to the hospital wing. She would have to set out another one if she wanted the flame to last the night. Had she any qualms about money, she would have considered the ever-rising price of human tallow candles a pity, but as it was, their price and growing rarity simply made them special.

In the corner, Night Snow hissed from within her wicker basket. Her mistress picked her up gingerly, and wrapped her once again around warm shoulders.

"I know you want to play, love," Cyana murmured to the serpent, running a hand along its supple scales, "but it's too soon for games. Business before pleasure."

The snake's response was to silently coil itself around its mistress's left arm in conceding disappointment, and the medi-witch entered her office and pulled a few more files from the oak cabinet and spread them out on her desk. She skimmed each one carefully, committing allergies, past injuries and everything else the randomly selected students were currently or had been afflicted with. It was unlikely that she would need to look at them again for the remainder of the year. "Work with what you know" had been a cardinal rule for her since she had begun to pursue her medical career, and she never allowed herself to treat a patient whom she had merely skimmed over. The psychologist in her gave her a thirst to know everything about everyone, within their bodies and within their minds.

Or perhaps that was just the Slytherin in her.

The serpent in her, like Night Snow, really _would_ have rather been playing than working, but she had long ago trained herself into denying such whims. It wasn't all that difficult to do -- she enjoyed her work, and thus it was no real chore -- but her spirit naturally rebelled to the thought of having a set occupation; one with limits to her freedom. Law in general -- at least, laws that did not allow the certain luxuries she craved. Law that was not that of her Dark Lord's.

Fear gave Lord Voldemort the majority of his followers. Adoration gave him their unfaltering loyalty, and those who were possessed of that loyalty were both precious and few. The half-mad who revelled in the freedom and joy of anarchy, the ability to bestow pain upon another without so much as a second thought, and the dark and beautiful promise of boundless power.

Of course, they _were_ bound to him, but his chains could be made of velvet if he took as much pleasure in one of them as they did in him and what he gave them. He had the most power -- that was never disputed -- but to his favourites, he bequeathed a part of himself: what little of him that was still human. It was a possessive, almost childlike dance with intricate steps, and if one could learn them, only then could they truly appreciate the grace of their combination. Nothing less than such a subtle, cunning sense of power and hierarchy could be expected from the Heir of Salazar Slytherin himself.

The thought of it was delicious in her mind, and she smiled as though drunk with it. His fall had left his supporters in anguished chaos, but his return a scant three months ago had been cause for secret celebration amongst those who only stood to gain from his reign. But for those who did not...

Severus Snape was a traitor. Caligula Nott had leeched that much information out of Igor Karkaroff before the latter's well-deserved death. The information had not particularly surprised Cyana, though it was doubtful she would have been told of Snape's treachery had she not first accepted the position she now held at Hogwarts. Lord Voldemort had been pleased with her foresight, if a little...annoyed...that she had not first consulted him -- but she was a loyal one, an intelligent one, and he was not so petty as to ignore an apt opportunity when it was presented plainly in front of him. Her task was a double-edged blade: to destroy the Potions master, and to perfect the poison she had been toiling at for the last sixteen years.

Crafting the poison to harm only Muggles and Mudbloods had been simple enough; she'd been able to manage it at only twenty-one. In the past, there had been many attempts by Dark alchemists, some of which worked decently enough but could not always differentiate between generations. The only real immunity to such elixirs was an absolute purity of magical blood, which was becoming more and more difficult to come by as the years went on. Most of the witches and wizards who had authored the recipes were too arrogant and prejudiced to pay any attention to how the Muggles were dealing with medicine, but Cyana knew that only a fool would resist knowledge of one's enemies -- especially their ability to heal themselves. She had enrolled in a Muggle university to study medicine and, after schooling herself to ignore the distasteful company, had devoured their knowledge of the workings of the human body. Anatomy, cellular structure, diseases of the flesh and the nerves that the inhabitants of the wizarding world were impervious to, like cancer, Parkinson's and Alzheimer's.

She'd studied their technology as well; microscopes and CAT scans, computer simulations of viruses and strands of DNA. It had not been difficult to utilise this sort of knowledge to create a poison that attacked those of a particular genetic structure lacking certain magical components. Funnily enough, it had been composed of some of the least-magical plants and herbs in existence, but it would not help her now. This poison was not for the weeding out of non-magical blood -- it was for the elimination of the righteous soul.

Her education in psychology helped her more than any knowledge of cells and computers, as the soul, for all intents and purposes, was a magical thing, with or without its body containing the ability to successfully perform charms and incantations. The soul was an ancient, powerful mysticism that shaped and was shaped by the personality of its host. To create a serum that literally fed off of the virtue within a person's soul would not only strike down her Lord's enemies, but had the potential to gain him allies as well. A tasteless, traceless dementor that would leave more than just a human shell behind after its meal -- it would leave a Dark soldier, a black pawn, expendable and innumerable, not just Muggles and Mudbloods, but pure-bloods, half-bloods, all who opposed the Dark Lord would be crushed to their hands and knees in worship of him with only a sip of something that both looked, smelled and tasted as harmless as water. The perfect poison.

It was the reason why Charenton was no longer suitable for her purposes. In the times following Lord Voldemort's fall from power at the tiny hands of that wretched Potter boy, the institution had served her well in providing a cover for her true research. If a mad mind became more aggressive, it was said to have slipped further into insanity. Her patients had already lost their minds; no one suspected that the reasoning behind their belligerent behaviour was that they were losing their souls as well. (Or that the reason some of the schizophrenics suddenly went catatonic was because of a too-potent appetiser she'd served them before dinner.)

But as time went on, and patients came and went, it had become gradually harder and harder to discern the depth of their reaction to the various samples she'd mixed in with their meals. Soul or no soul, bedlam is bedlam, and her mad little guinea pigs had outlived their usefulness some time ago. Her Lord's triumphant return, ironically through the same boy who had nearly stolen his life fourteen years previous, had only added to the need for new test subjects -- _sane_ test subjects -- through which she could more quickly and accurately tell the effects of her work. Dumbledore's offer could not have come at a more perfect time.

Over one thousand students of varying adolescent ages under the combined stresses of schoolwork and living in a world that was on the verge of war. They would eat less and worry more, become naturally more antagonistic, and when their health began to fail them who else would they go to see about it but her? She was the school medi-witch. The healer of bodies and minds, skulls and brains. From Quidditch-induced comas to a simple belly-ache, they would come to her. "He's more hostile than usual? Well, what do you expect? He's sixteen." "Kids will be kids, you know." And Cyana's personal favourite, "Children can be so cruel."

Blessed, impetuous youth.

Her musings turned toward the Potions master as she set the files aside and opened the locked bottom drawer of her desk with a muttered incantation. Night Snow lifted her head as her mistress extracted a glass and an oddly-shaped metal spoon, a large green bottle that did not contain wine, and a smaller, brown bottle that did not contain any essential oil.

Mechanically, she poured from the large bottle a bright green liquid into the glass, plucked a sugar cube from the bowl serving as a paperweight atop her desk, and placed both it and the spoon over the rim of the glass. The laudanum came next, a well-practiced measurement trickled over the sugar cube, and then the flame from a spark from her wand. The scent of burnt caramel twisted in ribbons through the air, and when the cube was half-melted, she extinguished the fire in one soft breath.

"Indulging in your namesake, I see."

Cyana's head snapped in the direction of the voice, but she did not jump. Snape arched an unimpressed brow at her and leaned leisurely against the doorframe. The medi-witch relaxed some, and returned her attention to the glass, dropping the remnants of the laudanum-soaked sugar cube into the absinthe and stirring it gently.

"Very apt, is it not?" she enquired without looking up, and took a sip. Even sugared, the drink was bitter on her tongue.

"Quite. Almost comically so."

"Mm. But where are my manners?" She turned back toward him, a beguiling smile now gracing her features. "Can I tempt you to indulge in me as well?"

Snape snorted derisively at the cheap flirtation, and it was her turn to arch an eyebrow.

"Well if you're not here for a drink, then what _are_ you here for?" she demanded, caressing the top of Night Snow's head with the pad of her thumb. Snape didn't miss a beat, a disingenuous smirk distorting his thin mouth.

"Just checking to see how you're...settling in," he quietly drawled, his eyes travelling to the absinthe bottle. "Well enough, apparently."

"My apologies for not engaging in some illicit act for you to catch me red-handed at, but absinthe is legal in Britain. In both the personal and alcoholic senses," she added. "Honestly, Severus, are you really _that_ distrustful of me? We were children together, for gods' sake."

The smirk left his face, and was replaced by a snarl. "Need I remind you of who else we were children with? That's hardly a decent defence, Cyana. I had expected better from you."

"Oh? And what else do you expect from me? I'd hate to disappoint in future," she bit back sarcastically, taking another sip of the green liqueur. Severus did not take the bait, and she went on, "Tell me, how often do you plan on 'checking' on me? Is this your initial intimidation tactic or do you plan on making a routine of it?"

"If you are not planning on being party to any 'illicit acts', what difference does it make?"

"Perhaps I want to know if I'll ever get a moment's peace without an irritating, scowling shadow forever nipping at my heels. Get off my back, Snape. There is nothing here for your great nose to sniff out."

He sneered down at her and removed the glass from the loose hold of her fingers, swirling the liquid inside of it around experimentally. "We'll see about that," he hissed, then downed the last of the drink in one gulp before setting the glass down on top of her desk. He was silent for a moment, analysing the taste. "Not unpleasant," he finally confessed, then turned and swept out of her office before she could respond.

Cyana watched him go, her eyes narrowing slightly, half in annoyance, half in intrigue. The destruction of the Potions master would take time. He had always been shrewd, shrewd and cautious in every aspect of his life, though he was also prone to bouts of irrational temper. He bottled things up within himself like a kettle with a cork in its spout; a quiet threat that only made its presence known when it was too late, and something had to give. She could prey easily on that fault, and would enjoy the hunt. She always had been attracted to men of a certain...unconventional visage, and she had never found Snape displeasing to look at, even in her "impetuous youth."

This would be a slow seduction, and it would likely come to a violent culmination by the time she had the chance to strike. But even that worked out in her favour; it would give her time to carve his demise, and though she would have to be extremely wary of her first task, that he would be watching her so closely only made the second one that much easier to accomplish. She would have Severus Snape in her grasp, all in due time, and when she did, she would crush him: mind, body, and soul.

* * *

¹Cruor Infinitaserum: A restorative potion made from unicorn's blood. If unicorn's blood is scarce, the blood of a virgin maiden will suffice, though the serum will not be as potent. Oddly enough, this potion shouldn't even exist, as it always has been and always will be both illegal and atrocious to slay a unicorn in order to obtain its blood; however, the use of the blood of a virgin maiden in the Cruor Infinitaserum was only made illegal in the year 1609, when the Transylvania-born witch and Hungarian countess Elizabeth Bathory pushed this law to its limitations and beyond after becoming addicted to the potion and using it, to put it politely, in excess.

* * *

A small disclaimer: Miss Cackle's Academy is property of Jill Murphy, author of _The Worst Witch._ I figured there was no way Hermione _hadn't_ read Murphy, and no way any of the Dursleys _had,_ what with their phobia of all things even vaguely magical. 


End file.
